


a fall from grace

by dearestwinter



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bladder Control, Incest, M/M, Non Consensual Daemon Touching, Not Beta Read, Omorashi, Poisoning, Psychological Torture, Rape, Torture, Uncle/Nephew Incest, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:55:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24474646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearestwinter/pseuds/dearestwinter
Summary: AU where Daemon and Aemond survive the Dance of the Dragons. Daemon goes on to become Hand of the King for his son Aegon, and Aemond is sent to the black cells until the end of his days.That is, until Daemon sends for him with a plan.Completely self-indulgent fic, mind the tags.
Relationships: Aemond Targaryen/Daemon Targaryen
Comments: 8
Kudos: 41





	a fall from grace

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry about any grammatical errors, I don't have a beta and English is not my first language. 
> 
> I've been wanting to write this for a long time, so enjoy.
> 
> Comments are always welcome 💚

The prisoner is dragged through the barely lit hallways and out into the light of a well-furnished bedchamber. The guards throw him carelessly on a chair, still shackled hands and feet, and leave out the door as the same time an old handmaiden comes in, followed by two younger women carrying buckets of water. 

The old woman spares but a fleeting glance at him before she sets to work, ripping the ragged tunic off himself with her bare hands, until his chest and arms are exposed, and then doing the same with his breeches and underclothing. His eye is still becoming accustomed to the blinding light coming from everywhere, so everything is a blur of colors, but he figures it's normal after spending gods know how much time in the dark.

One of the younger women tugs harshly on his matted hair as she tries to brush it. It's longer than he has ever worn it, and if he could see it, he would know that the silver gold is dull and dirty, and covered in lice. The time spent in the black cells has not done the rest of his body any kindness either; he sees through the haze, the black and purple bruises scattered on his arms and legs, and the boot-shaped bruise the guard had left imprinted on his ribs some days ago when he had been almost beaten to death. That's the key word,  _ almost.  _ He's not done here yet, his nuncle wouldn't let him be done here yet. 

The third woman brings one of the water buckets and a sponge, and starts giving him a bath. He lets them because he knows that resisting is futile, since his shackles are too short for him to try anything, and he's also gagged, so he doesn't think of wasting what little energy he has on trying to speak. He needs a bath too, he hasn't seen the light of day since he had been arrested what he guesses was many moons ago. The feeling of being filthy is not so bad once you stop paying attention to it, but he needs to feel clean again so he can get the memories of waking up to the rats down in the black cells chewing on his flesh through his clothes, out of his mind.

He sees her through his good eye, the woman pressing a clean wet rag on his face as delicately as if she were bathing a newborn babe. She's careful to avoid touching the empty socket where his sapphire had been a long time ago. She lets out a whispered apology when he hisses as she cleans the deep gash on his forehead, made with the sharp dagger belonging to one of his guards, for no reason other than him being their prisoner and toy. Still, he's glad it's not going to fester even if it leaves a prominent scar. He's not done here yet. 

That's what he's been repeating to himself like a mantra for many turns of the moon, alone and hunched in a corner of his dark cell, pacing and feeling the cold stone floor beneath his bare feet, kicking and screaming as he punches the unyielding walls.  _ I'm not done here yet, I'm not done here yet.  _ Those words had been whispered to himself as comfort when he had run out of insults for the guards and his nuncle, and his little idiot nephew sitting on the throne. For the old bitch from the seventh hell that had been his half-sister, whom Aegon had fed to his dragon, the only useful thing a cripple like him has ever done.

_ I'm not done here yet. _ The words had been sung when he was bored out of his mind, or reliving the greatest moments of his life in his head, like when he had watched the Strong bastard fall along with his dragon and plunge to his death when they met in battle above Shipbreaker Bay. He remembers laughing that stormy night after the deed was done, and he remembers laughing as he shouted to the guards to tell Lord Fleabottom to come visit whenever he pleased, so that he could tell his nuncle all about it, and the words he had uttered to Lucerys right before his fall. 

Now he knows that he hadn't been wrong. He had known that one day his nuncle would send for him, even if it were to give him to the flames. He would not meet death as a coward, he would march to the pyre with his head high and a smile on his lips. A Targaryen is not afraid of the fire, for they're made of it as much as dragons are. A Targaryen who is afraid of the fire is not worthy of being the blood of Old Valyria. 

But he's not done here yet, so he doesn't worry about the future. The women dress him in fine clothes that remind him of the ones he used to wear, albeit a bit plain for his taste. The two guards come into the bedchamber once again to free his limbs from the shackles so the women can put the black breeches, undershirt, doublet, and boots on him. His wrists and ankles are raw and chafed from the rusty old things rubbing against the pale skin. He's free from their weight for all but a minute, and then they're back on again. The woman in charge of his hair braided it nicely to fall down his back almost to his waist. But he would truly feel himself again if he had his sapphire to cover his empty socket. 

_ I'm not done here yet,  _ he mutters as the guards push him to walk fast through the deserted Red Keep's halls. He doesn't need to guess where they're taking him; the guards had been kind enough to taunt him about Daemon Targaryen being the Hand of the King to his son.  _ What does it feel like, knowing your uncle is the one truly ruling the realm, sitting on the throne that you think is yours by right? Now he really left you in the dark, One-Eye.  _

He's out of shape, panting as he struggles to catch up with the guards' long strides. Thankfully, they didn't bother to shackle his feet because he doesn't doubt he would be being dragged through the halls by now.  _ It's good to see light again _ , he thinks, mesmerized by the way the fire flickers in bright gold and blue as the guard who's in charge of the torch walks ahead of him. Aemond can almost feel the fire warming his face.

Suddenly, it's dark. It takes a moment for his eye to adjust to it, but when it does, he realizes they're out of Maegor's Holdfast. The tower of the Hand stands mighty and proud before him, cast in shadows. He looks upwards to the sky, smiling as he sees the stars. The wind in his face brings back memories of flying on Vhagar's back, but they're ripped off his mind as the guard tug on his chain to make him keep walking.

He focuses on putting a foot in front of the other when they climb the hundred steps to his nuncle's solar. It wouldn't do for him to slip and break his neck, not when he's so close, even if he knows the meeting with Lord Fleabottom will not be any pleasant. But he knows this won't be the night Aemond One-Eye draws his last breath.  _ If anything, this is the start of my new life.  _

The solar is empty of Daemon Targaryen when they come in, but it is not as Aemond remembers it from older times when he's been here. His uncle's desk has been disposed in favor of a long table, much like the one that's on the council chamber, with two high-backed chairs on each end. Aemond's stomach rumbles as he sees what's  _ on  _ the table. Dishes of all kinds, lamprey pies and chicken and broth, roasted boar, and cheeses of all shapes and colours. Jugs or water, ale, and wine with tall shiny goblets decorated with precious gems.  _ What is your plan, nuncle? You cannot be hoping for us to sup together.  _ Aemond is pushed to one of the chairs until he takes a seat, and then he's free of his chains.

The guards don't say a word as they leave, but Aemond can hear them take their posts outside of the door. He looks around the chamber, letting out a giggle. He rubs his wrists, angry red marks circling them, as he stares at the food in front of him. He hasn't been fed today, and his fingers itch to grab as much food as he can and shove it into his mouth. He glances at the closest dish, the lamprey pie. He tears a slice off with his bare hands, but stops himself before taking a bite. He knows what game Daemon is trying to play here. He puts the slice of pie back on the plate and pushes it away from him as if it just burned him.  _ It probably will if I eat it. _

He doesn't hear footsteps outside the door, so he deems it safe to take a walk around his uncle's solar. His desk is gone, but there are drawers against the walls. He rumages through them, not really looking for something, although there is nothing that could interest him either. Old maps, documents from centuries past, and the occasional scrap of parchment with several different handwritings on it from former Hands. Aemond closes the drawers harshly, the wood cracking from the force of it. He doesn't even try to open the doors to the balcony, knowing Lord Fleabottom wouldn't be so stupid as to leave them unlocked. 

"I guess you haven't found anything to amuse yourself with?" 

_ That voice.  _ Aemond turns around sharply. His uncle is exactly as he remembers him, from the long silver hair to the cocky smile on his face. He looks every inch the king he would never be, the golden hands entwined around his neck gleaming under the candlelight. 

"How did you get here, nuncle?" He should have heard the guards opening the door. 

Daemon's smirk deepens. "Ah, I had a little help from one of our ancestors. Come take a seat, nephew. You must be hungry." 

"Maegor's secret passages," he realizes. His uncle is already by the table as Aemond takes a seat. Daemon eyes the slice of lamprey pie with a raised eyebrow, then he cocks his head. 

"You didn't really think I would poison you, did you?" he asks. Then he lets out a snort, "you did." 

He snatches the slice off the plate and takes a huge bite, making a show of chewing it slowly and swallowing it. He swaggers his way to the other chair, and flops down on it.

"See? The food is not poisoned, sweet nephew. You may help yourself to anything you want." 

Aemond feels like a scolded child, and he  _ hates _ it. He grabs the first thing he sees, one of the enamelled goblets and flings it to his uncle, who ducks his head gracefully to avoid being bludgeoned with it, and the goblet shatters against the wall behind him. 

Daemon smiles as he watches him, and Aemond probably can imagine what he looks like: face flushed, breathing ragged with barely-contained anger. His uncle doesn't say a word as he claps his hands once and the door opens, and two servants come into the solar. 

"Bring my nephew another goblet. He seems to have broken his."

One of the servants comes back quickly with another goblet, exactly the same as the one he just threw against the wall. He fills it from the one of the jugs of wine on the table, the liquid sparkling golden. Daemon raises his own goblet to him as if toasting him, but Aemond only throws him a heated glare and swallows the wine in his goblet in a long gulp.

Daemon flicks a hand and the servants leave, closing the door behind them. Aemond starts nibbling on a slice of lamprey pie when his hand start tingling. He flexes his fingers, but it does not stop the sensation from travelling upwards until he feels like there are ants under the skin of his arm. 

The tingling increases until it stops as quickly as it came, but Aemond finds his arm immobilized. He raises his gaze, finding his uncle watching him with interested in his purple eyes and a raised silver eyebrow. Aemond tries to get up from the chair but by then his whole body has stopped responding to his commands. 

"What have you done to me?", he asks, voice croaking as the poison reaches the muscles in his neck. 

"Well, I did say the  _ food  _ wasn't poisoned. I had hoped your hearing would be well, but perhaps too much time alone with your own thoughts down in the black cells have not been kind to your ears." 

Aemond tries with all his might to move his paralyzed limbs, but they move not an inch from where they are, arms resting on the chair's handles and his neck raised high. He can only move his eye, and he does, following his wretched uncle's form as Daemon rises from his chair and turns his back on him, disappearing around a dark corner. He comes back quickly enough, a strange golden round thing in hand. As he comes closer, Aemond sees it more clearly and his nostrils flare when he understands what it is. A bloody funnel.

"Do not worry, sweet nephew. The poison will wear off in a couple of hours, but until then, you and I are going to use the time to become acquainted again." 

Daemon places the funnel on the table, and turns to grab two of the jugs of wine, one in each hand, and he holds them up expectantly. 

"So, what is it going to be? A Dornish red, or a rich Arbor red? I have been told you favor both of them," Daemon's purple eyes spark with a malicious glint the more he speaks. He deposits one of the jugs back on the table, and catches Aemond by the jaw with the other. His hand is cold, and fingers invade his mouth as Daemon opens his mouth, funnel firmly in place by his own teeth. 

"I think Arbor red will suffice enough for this." 

Liquid suddenly fills his mouth as his uncle starts pouring the wine down the funnel. Aemond can do nothing but swallow, his throat doing it on reflex to avoid being choked to death. He cannot even taste it as it goes down his throat and settles on his stomach. Daemon is clever, though, and stops frequently to let him breathe through his nose and to avoid making him sick from drinking too much too fast. After a few minutes, his uncle takes the funnel out of his mouth, and Aemond swallows only to feel his throat raw and itchy. 

"It is quite a shame to waste such good wine on you, Aemond, but sometimes sacrifices need to be made to reach one's goals." 

Aemond tries to speak, but his vocal cords no longer work. Daemon picks up on this, of course, "If there is ever a time when I like you, Aemond, it is when you are quiet." 

His uncle sits back on his chair across the table, ripping one of the wild boar's legs with a fork calmly as you please, and starts eating. Aemond, for his part, can only watch him. 

He doesn't know how much time passes when he starts feeling a throb on the pit of his stomach and he curses inwardly. Of course, with all the wine Lord Fleabottom made him drink he would need to piss so soon. Then he curses again when he realizes his uncle's plan, and he feels his blood boil inside his veins. 

Whatever happens, he won't show Daemon his need.  _ I won't give you the satisfaction to see me humiliated, nuncle.  _ Still, as the seconds trickle by, his sight begins to blur and the throbbing of his bladder gets more and more uncomfortable to the point where he feels the need to jiggle his leg. Alas, he's still paralyzed so it is impossible. 

_ He has you right where he wants you, _ his mind supplies unhelpfully. Aemond closes his eyes, trying to think about anything to take his mind off the piss pounding inside himself. He recalls training with Ser Criston Cole in the courtyard, and the lessons imparted in his childhood by old Grand Maester Mellos. He thinks about his own mother, graceful and proud by his side as he sat the Iron Throne during his tenure as Prince Regent. He thinks about a recurring fantasy of his, wrapping his hands around Daemon Targaryen's pale throat as he chokes the life out of him. 

A hand shakes his shoulder brusquely, and Aemond feels a spurt leaking out of his cock. His uncle is hovering above him, a smirk plastered on his handsome face, a smirk Aemond would very much like to cut off him with a sharp knife. 

Now that he has leaked, the need is so much stronger, and he has to tense his muscles as much as he can to avoid another accident. He prays to the gods the wet spot doesn't show as Daemon turns his chair halfway around to watch him more closely. 

He realizes his uncle can see the desperation on his face as he smiles, showing perfect white teeth, and says, "I think someone is starting to feel the need for the privy already." Daemon crouches in front of him, inspecting his crotch curiously. Then he grabs his cock, pinching the tip with his thumb and forefinger. 

Aemond feels sudden relief coursing through his body, but then his uncle's hand draws away, and his control comes back to hanging from a thread. He leaks again, the urge to cross his legs is too strong, and he knows that eventually he will wet himself. In front of his uncle. He will give Daemon what he wants, and the thought of that happening is enough to make a single angry tear roll down his left cheek. 

Daemon is attentive to any change in Aemond's standing, because he chuckles, and even if he's still crouched in front of him, Aemond feels like his uncle is standing much taller. 

"Are you in too much pain, little nephew? Perhaps you can let go and get it over with. Or perhaps, I could give you a hand with that." 

Daemon's hand presses the spot above his belt, and Aemond grits his teeth as he feels piss coming out steadily. It takes longer for him to stop, and he can feel the liquid rolling down his leg and trickling on the floor. He manages to cut the stream off, but it is only a matter of time. His uncle's fingers caress the wet fabric of his pants near his crotch, and when he raises his hand, Aemond sees through the fog of drunkenness that the fingers are dotted with little drops of piss. 

There is nothing he can do as Daemon pries his mouth open again and his own piss touches his tongue. It is still warm and a bit salty, with a faint taste of wine. When the fingers retreat, he swallows the sudden urge to throw up and the bile replaces the taste of piss and wine on his mouth. 

The second time his uncle's hand presses on his bladder, he cannot stop the stream for several seconds. It eventually turns into a dribble, but it doesn't stop and the fabric of his breeches becomes sticky and uncomfortable. 

"If I do that again, it will be your undoing," his uncle says, matter-of-factly.

He's not wrong.

His muscles give out as Daemon keeps pressing on his abused bladder, and piss starts coming out in earnest, a torrent of pent-up liquid making its way out of his cock with such force that it is nearly painful. He sighs, though, relief stronger than pain as he hears the piss hissing and splattering against the stone floor of his uncle's solar. His bladder deflates, he can feel it no longer straining against his belt, and although he cannot move yet, Aemond's body sags on the chair as the tension leaves him. 

Eventually, the stream turns into a dribble and then it stops. His uncle's boots make a splash in the puddle of piss formed around them. His pants are soaked from the knees down too, but the man doesn't seem to mind. Aemond realizes that when his uncle starts unbuckling his own belt, and takes out his engorged cock. 

He knows what's going to happen before his uncle even opens his mouth to speak, and if he hadn't vomited before, he will surely do it now. 

"As you can see with your spare eye, sweet nephew, I am quite pleased with tonight's outcome. Your pain gives me pleasure, and I am only a man with a man's needs. You do understand that, don't you?" 

His uncle's hand caresses his cheek in what a fool could say it is a tender gesture, but Aemond is no fool and he can hear the threat implied,  _ do not bite my cock or I will do something worse to you.  _

He has no way to stop it, as Daemon's fingers open his mouth and the other hand massages his jaw to keep it lax. 

"Now, I will fuck your mouth with the cock that made the king sitting on the Iron Throne, and you will swallow every last drop of my seed."

The member enters his mouth smoothly, but it is not as much on the way out. Aemond doesn't bite, but his teeth scrape the upside of his uncle's cock, making the man hiss in pain above him. What he gets for this disobedience is a backhand slap so hard Aemond bites his tongue and blood fills his mouth. His head hits the chair's backrest with the force of the slap which makes him even more dizzy, and he's sure a bruise will form on the back of his head. 

Daemon's hands keep his head in place as his cock enters his mouth again, and Aemond doesn't try anything funny. He takes it, cursing the name of his uncle in his head because it's the only thing the man hasn't taken away from him yet. The cock is a heavy weight on his hurt tongue, but at least the blood doesn't let him taste it. Still, he chokes when the tip nudges the back of his throat again and again until he gags and swears he's about to pass out from the lack of breathing. 

_ I am not done yet.  _

It is true, Daemon releases him as he teeters off the edge of consciousness. He sucks in air sharply, and the cock is back on his mouth, this time not going as far. He loses track of time and his surroundings blur together until there's only Daemon Targaryen. He doesn't miss the taste of seed shooting up into his mouth as his uncle comes.

"My cock is so bloody, one might think I have just deflowered a maiden." 

Aemond half-hears his uncle's voice filling the silence, as if he's on a haze. He also doesn't hear the guards coming into the solar, and can barely feel the chains being clasped around his wrists and ankles again. 

Before they take him away, Daemon whispers in his ear, "I will send for you again another time. I am not done with you yet, Aemond." 

As the guards drag him from his chains back to the black cells, Aemond can't help the giggle bursting out of his mouth and bouncing off the walls. 

He's betting on it. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr](http://maegelletargaryen.tumblr.com). Come talk to me about anything 💞


End file.
